


If You Stand For Nothing, What Will Your Fall For?

by enthusiasmgirl



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - American Revolution, Angst, Episode: s01e10 Nelson v. Murdock, F/M, Friendship, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 12:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6283762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthusiasmgirl/pseuds/enthusiasmgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York City, 1776. </p><p>A mysterious demon in a mask is fighting against loyalist conspiracies and street gangs out to corrupt a country fighting for its own existence.  And in the midst of all the chaos, one ordinary lawyer experiences the betrayal of knowing that his valet has been keeping dangerous secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is based on a prompt for the Kink Meme Repost Madness challenge.
> 
> I know it's not completed yet, but I still have a few days until the deadline and I really feel like I need to hear from some people that this monster is any good. Once again, I've blown past a 2500 word minimum and am heading towards a longer fic. And I'm also waaaaaay off the prompt and just went with "Revolutionary War AU" and defaulted to thing I love to do, which is re-writing Nelson v. Murdock! So I need a bit of cheerleading to get me to the end and reassurance that this hasn't all been a waste of time. :S
> 
> Here's [the prompt](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/5006.html?thread=10113678#cmt10113678):
> 
> _Foggy's a lawyer who is all about debating how government should work, the ethics of taxation without representation, arguing over the latest political pamphlets and what the hell John Adams was thinking re: that mess in Boston, etc. Stuff a lawyer should be concerned with._
> 
> _Matt is a lawyer who likes breaking the faces of redcoats who take their Quartering Act privileges too far._
> 
> _Together, they fight crime tyranny? :D_
> 
> _(Fisk is very rich and is backing the British, obvs. Ben runs a printing press. Maybe Fisk applies pressure to get him to stop printing revolutionary tracts? Karen, his assistant with a dubious past, is 10000% for independence and tends to get herself in lots of trouble.)_

**1776**

Matthew awoke suddenly, unconscious one moment and fully aware the next - aware of the pain, the blood, the misery. He groaned and felt for the hastily stitched wounds that covered his chest and arms, tears escaping as he peeled back a fabric bandage and felt the grotesquely broken and bruised skin underneath.

He listened carefully for a moment, attempted to focus to determine his location. He was lying on a bed in his room in the boarding house. He could hear the other boarders going about their business in the rooms around him. And he wasn't alone.

"I would not do that if I were you," the voice said, familiar but firm and angry, prompting Matthew to press the bandage back down. "Then again, perhaps I would. What do I really know about Matthew Murdock, after all?"

The assertion directed at him, a simple truth, somehow managed to stab more deeply than any of the physical wounds Matthew had experienced.

"Did you stitch my wounds?" he asked, confused.

"No," Foggy replied. "That was your female friend."

"Claire?" Matthew asked.

"Indeed," Foggy told him. "I am not sure how it is that you came to associate with her, but it is a very good thing that she found you when she did and alerted me to your condition. Her knowledge of healing is surprising and impressive and the only reason you are still alive. She also assisted me with calming you down. Even nearly unconscious you were still fighting some unknown enemy. You attempted to punch me!"

"I don't remember," Matthew told him. "I'm sorry."

He could sense his friend's tears and hear the sob at the back of his throat as he spoke next. "I only have one question that requires an answer," Foggy told him. "Are you even really blind?"


	2. Chapter 2

**1765**

Matthew was in trouble.

An entire day spent wandering the unpaved streets of the bustling city had finally led him towards King's College, knowing that the idealized young men who frequented the drinking establishments and meeting halls near there were more likely than most to take pity on a blind man, to see him as a victim of an unjust society rather than a pitiful creature to be spat upon or scorned. And things had been going well. He had chosen a quiet, dry place near the warmth of a candle by the door to the Green Pantry Inn and settled in, pulling out his fiddle to play for the students and learned men who frequented it as they exited into the night.

"A few pence for a song, sir?" he would ask when he sensed someone approach. He would be sure to flutter his eyelashes and attempt to look in their direction so that they could identify him in the dim light as blind.

His skill with his instrument in spite of the obvious obstacles he had in learning music meant that most who saw him were impressed with him, and on this particular evening his instrument case had quickly filled with bronze coins. And so he was angrier than usual when he sensed one particularly obnoxious drunken gentleman in a fine wool coat and silk kerchief reach his grubby hands down and remove most of his earnings as he passed by.

"Excuse me, sir" he said, careful to appear deferential to a man above his station. "But I believe you must have made a mistake and become confused. You've taken my good patrons' generous donations to my cause."

"I've done no such thing," bellowed the man, and suddenly Matthew could smell his breath as the man leaned in close to him, thick with stew and ale. It made Matthew's mouth water and his stomach growl. "How dare you accuse me of stealing from you!" the man yelled. "Are you trying to extort me?"

"No, sir," Matthew told him. "I simply want you to return what's mine."

"Even if I did do what you are stating I did, which you can hardly claim to have seen, the coins in front of you are hardly yours, are they? They instead belong to the good people who, for reasons unbeknownst to me, choose to indulge an Irish cripple rather than have you hauled off and removed from civil society like the wretch that you are! No, it is you who are the thief, you who are the stain upon the fabric of society. And you dare to accuse me?"

The man grabbed Matthew by the arm, and suddenly Matthew's fury bubbled over combining with his instincts to land the man flat on his back on the street with an elbow at his throat.

It was only in the moments after Matthew realized what he had done that others who had exited from the Inn upon hearing the commotion were able to physically pull him away from his opponent.

The man on the ground was indignant. "Call a watchman," he sputtered at onlookers. "I want that man locked away at once!" Matthew's heart sank.

"Now, Percival," a voice suddenly interjected, "Surely there must be another way for us to settle this. This man is simply a poor, blind beggar. I'm sure he meant you no harm."

"No harm!" the man now identified as Percival shouted. "My dear Mr. Nelson, he attacked me in a fit of violence!"

"Is that what happened?" Mr. Nelson then asked in a calm, warm tone. The question was directed at Matthew.

"No sir," Matthew told him hesitantly. "I was simply defending myself."

"Defending yourself?" came the question. "Now, why would you have to defend yourself against Mr. Hildebrand here?" In the other man's voice Matthew heard, strangely, not an accusation but an instruction to choose his next words very carefully.

"He grabbed me," Matthew said, deliberately choosing to omit the accusation of stealing.

"Well, I'm sure that this has all been a misunderstanding then!" Mr. Nelson said jovially. "Percival, it's likely that you, in your merry state after our evening's festivities, simply bumped into this young man accidentally on your way out of the tavern. And that he then, not being able to otherwise ascertain what had happened, simply reacted out of fear and bewilderment, defending himself against what he could only assume to be an assault. Does that sound correct to you, my good sir?" He addressed Matthew, which made him smile.

"Yes, of course. That must have been what happened," Matthew agreed.

"And you, Percival?" Mr. Nelson asked. "Can you also agree that the incident I just described sounds reasonable? Certainly I don't think you would wish to call attention to anything else that might have occurred?"

There was a grunt. "Yes, I suppose that does sound correct. No need to call the watchman after all."

Matthew sighed in relief.

"As for you," the man continued, addressing Matthew, "be warned that you cannot always count on a skilled student of the law such as Mr. Nelson being present to waste their skills getting you out of trouble. I do not wish to see you begging at this location ever again, and if I do I will alert the appropriate authorities. It's a menace, having to hear the dreadful caterwauling of that instrument all evening, and so close to the doorway. It's a wonder nobody besides myself has tripped over you yet."

Matthew heard footsteps indicating that the man walked away, and the other spectators retreated back into the Inn leaving him alone with his rescuer.

"I'm sorry for the trouble, sir," he told him.

"Don't you be sorry," came the reply. "It's Percival Hilbebrand who should be absolutely ashamed of himself this evening. Stealing from the blind, as though he even needs the money. It's disgraceful. I didn't drop a few pence in your box earlier only for it to find its way into his pockets."

"Yes, well, most people who I interact with choose to either take advantage of me or simply pass me by," Matthew told him. "It is nothing that I am not accustomed to."

"Still," the man said, "it's a sad thing to think that the fine patrons of this establishment won't have the opportunity to hear your music again. You're very good. What's your name?"

"Matthew Murdock."

"I'm Franklin Nelson, however I allow those who I actually like to call me Foggy," Matthew was surprised to hear him say. "I'm extending my hand right now if you would like to shake it."

Tentatively, Matthew reached out and found his hand.

"Allow me to buy you a drink, Matthew," Foggy told him. "I feel the need to overcompensate for your loss this evening by ensuring that you're taken care of. And in return, perhaps you can listen as I practice my French. I'm dreadful with languages, but I suspect you have a very good ear for them."

"That I do, sir," Matthew told him, following him through the door into the Inn.

"Now, I do believe I told you my name was Foggy, didn't I?" Foggy asked him.

Matthew would count his blessings that trouble turned into such good fortune for the rest of his life.


	3. Chapter 3

**1776**

"So you are able to see," Foggy stated.

"That's not..." Matthew stuttered. "Are you even listening to what I am trying to say to you?"

"Yes!" Foggy yelled. "The world is on fire! I understand that part of it. But you are able to see then!"

"In a manner of speaking..." Matthew tried to explain.

"No!" Foggy said. "No manner! All these years... I actually felt sorry for you."

"I never asked for that," Matthew told him. "You know that I never would."

"Perhaps," Foggy said, "But I never asked to be lied to. I believed us to be friends."

"We are," Matthew said, but it sounded hollow in his ears.

"You lied to me, Matthew. From the very moment we met."

"And what would you have had me say?" Matthew asked him. "That the terrible illness that blinded me as a child left me cursed? That I have spent my entire life with heightened senses gifted to me by the Devil himself as his instrument in this world? The truth was so fearful a thing to me that I could not confess it even to my own father, God rest his soul. And in recent years I have been so wholly dependent upon you, dear Foggy, and you have been altogether too kind to me. Had I told you the truth, what would have become of me then?"

"I can understand your fear and, perhaps, a belief on your part that I would refuse to hear it or in some way be influenced to abandon you," Foggy said, "but you told that woman, Claire."

"I did not choose that," Matthew explained. "She found me in Lispenard Meadow half-dead. Did she not tell you that?"

"I suspect I scared the poor girl," Foggy said. "She refused to tell me anything and only healed you, which was all I cared about at the time."

Foggy sighed and took a deep breath. Matthew knew that whatever the other man was about to say was weighing heavily on him.

"Are you the one responsible for the explosions at the shipyards?" came the question, finally. "Did you murder those Hessians?" The uncertainty in his voice was heartbreaking to Matthew.

"Is that a question you feel you must ask?"

"Given that you only just a few moments ago told me that you believe yourself to be the Devil's instrument, yes," Foggy told him calmly. "I believe it is."

Matthew paused, unsure how to go on, but he knew he needed to.

"It was... It was Wilson Fisk," he stuttered.

"Mr. Fisk did this to you?" Foggy asked, surprised.

"Alongside Nobu," Matt told him.

"Nobu?" Foggy questioned.

"An associate of Mr. Fisk's, from Japan. I believe him to be a member of a warrior sect of some kind."

"A warrior." The disbelief and resignation were both evident in Foggy's voice. "From Japan. Working with Mr. Fisk?"

"I suspect," Matthew told him.

"You told me that you admire and respect what I do, that it was your dream to be a lawyer before you were blinded. That you believed, like I do, that reason and fair application of the law were the paths to a more just society," Foggy said.

"I do believe those things, Foggy," Matthew told him. "That wasn't a lie."

"And yet you now attack common citizens, criminal or no, in a mask," Foggy responded. "Do you know what they call that? Vigilantism. Common thuggery."

Suddenly, a rapping on the door interrupted the conversation. "Mr. Nelson, sir," a female voice inquired insistently. "Are you there?"

Matthew heard Foggy's footsteps move towards the door. "Foggy, Foggy, stop," Matthew demanded.

Foggy paused. "Karen deserves to know the truth," he said softly.

"Please..." Matthew begged.

"Is this what you do?" Foggy asked in a whispered voice as the knocking continued, turning towards the bed again. "When we come to fetch you to join us for a drink, or when we are trying to find you when the city is under siege? Have you been pretending not to be present when we've been worried about you?"

"No," Matthew said, a lie.

Karen's demand to enter became more aggressive. "Foggy, the proprietor of the house told me that you are in there!" Karen yelled. "I beg you, open the door!"

Before Matt could protest, Foggy marched over and opened the door a crack, enough that Karen could only see him and her entry into the room and view of things was otherwise blocked. "Is there something I can help you with, Miss Page?"

Karen backed up slightly, surprised. "I... I'm looking for Mr. Murdock. Have you seen him? I can't seem to find him anywhere."

"He's here with me," Foggy told her.

"Oh," Karen said. "Is everything alright then? You look like you've been crying."

"I'm afraid Mr. Murdock is in a rather bad state right now," Foggy told her after a moment of consideration.

"Dear Lord!" Karen exclaimed. "What happened?"

"You know him," Foggy explained. "His circumstances have always made him a magnet for a certain kind of trouble. He simply crossed the path of the wrong sort of person."

"Well, allow me to attend to him then!" Karen said, shaking. She tried to push past him and into the room, but Foggy blocked her path.

"It's alright, Miss Page," he told her firmly. "His injuries have been attended to, and it would be inappropriate for a woman to see him looking so indecent. Pray for him and that should be enough."

"Foggy..." Karen said, again trying to push forward, frustrated.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and moved her out of the doorway. "Your presence is not needed here, Miss Page. Return to my office and ensure that everything is locked up tightly there. I will call for you if we need you."

Karen looked as though she were considering her options for a moment, but eventually she turned and left.

"Thank you," Matthew said as Foggy shut the door.

"Don't you dare thank me!" Foggy yelled at him, approaching the bed. "You just forced me to lie to the woman who I someday hope to make my wife. So you will tell me everything. And you will leave nothing out."

* * *

Hours later, Foggy unlocked the old wooden trunk stacked under several crates of belongings along one wall of Matthew's room, finding himself staring down at tattered red silk and two halves of a formidable looking wooden staff. He gave a tug and the false bottom pulled up, revealing a hidden compartment underneath. There, he found elements of the standard wear for a colonial militiaman, not dissimilar to clothing that he had sported personally. A linen hunting shirt, long coat made of coarse wool, neckerchief, trousers and boots were all present, and his heart sunk as he took in their colour. All were died black.

"Where did you obtain these items?" Foggy asked Matthew. "I've seen members of the Continental Army who weren't dressed as well as this."

"Some were bought," Matthew told him, "but some were stolen. I was without other options. My usual clothing is hardly suitable for fighting."

"And the colour? Surely a tailor would have considered black an unusual request?" Foggy asked him.

"Done myself to better blend into the night," Matthew replied. "Claire suggested it to me and assisted. She showed me how to create the dye from acorns and rust."

Foggy replaced the contents of the chest and closed the lid. "A worthy and able accomplice," Foggy said. "Did she also teach you to fight?"

Matt groaned in pain from the bed and attempted to move to a less painful position, unsure how to respond.

"I heard stories from those who witnessed you engaging with the street gangs and the Hessians on the night of the explosions," Foggy continued. "They spoke of a remarkable assailant too graceful and agile to even be considered fully human, of fights that involved impossible leaps, punches too quick to observe and dodges that seemed to predict the future before it had occurred. Your father was a boxer. I cannot imagine that he taught you how to fight like the otherwordly creature I heard described."

"No," Matthew said. "My father never wanted me to fight. You know that."

"So explain your skill," Foggy demanded.

Matthew struggled to sit up. "I learned to fight from an elderly man named Stick, who was also blind," he said.

"An elderly man who was also blind?" Foggy asked. "Why won't you tell me the truth?"

"I'm sorry, Foggy," Matthew said. "I have never spoken of it with you because I did not wish to burden you with it, but he saved me from the asylum in England. You have been blessed to have lived a life where you never had to face the darkness and oppression of a place like that. Hundreds of inmates howling and crying, talking to the voices in their heads and screaming for mercy. Rotted food, filth and foul disease. When I was half-mad and ready to die, still only a child, he found me and took me from that place. He gave me a chance to have a new life, taught me to live as a free man. In exchange, he trained me to be a soldier in some unknown war that I never had to fight, because he abandoned me before it arrived. I realize that it sounds unbelievable-"

"-I do not think that you do," Foggy interrupted.

"But it is the truth," Matthew finished. "I swear to you. It was Stick who helped me to understand the gifts the Devil gave me and see that they did not have to be used for evil. He helped me to realize everything I can do."

"Define everything," Foggy said firmly.

"It is difficult to explain, Foggy," Matthew struggled to articulate. "My abilities... I know things."

"What things? Can you read my mind? Can you predict the future?" Foggy demanded to know. "Explain to me how it is that you can do the things that people are claiming! What do you know?"

Matthew sighed. "I know that you haven't eaten breakfast yet today, but that you had dinner at the Carriage Pub last night. You ordered veal chops with celery and mushrooms and drank well into the night. I know that you have two teeth in your lower jaw which are beginning to rot and will need to be pulled soon. You're aware of them because you're constantly clenching down on them when you speak as though they've been bothering you more as time passes. You're hungry, and you're tired. And I know that the more I speak, the faster your heart beats in your chest."

"You can hear a heart beat?" Foggy asked, surprised. "From across the room?"

"It helps me to anticipate behaviour," Matthew explained. "It tells me when someone is about to attack. When someone is lying."

"That explains why you were so insistent that Miss Page was telling the truth," Foggy realized. "You listened to her heartbeat without her permission. And from that you were able to ascertain her honesty? You know me to be a rational person, but even I have to admit that such a thing gives the appearance of sorcery. And of being improper on top of it."

"I didn't intend for it to be..." Matt tried to explain, but Foggy interrupted him.

"Wait..." Foggy wondered, "does that mean that in the entire time that we have known each other, any time that I wasn't being truthful with you... You knew?"

Matthew could only nod sadly. Foggy paced the room, furious.

"If you weren't already half-dead, I would have every justification to beat you right now!" Foggy cried angrily. "A man with a shorter temper than me would murder you without a second thought for such a thing! To know a man's every secret... that's just..." Foggy searched for the words. "My God!"

"No, don't blame him, Foggy," Matthew told him solemnly, "I told you. It's the devil's doing."

Foggy sighed heavily and sniffled away a tear. "Was anything between us ever real, then?"


	4. Chapter 4

**1767**

Matt cackled wildly as the crowd at the Nervous Jester applauded and hollered at him and threw his arms out, basking in the warm attention.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he had to say with a giggle as he nearly poked his drinking companion in the eye with the bow of his fiddle, too drunk himself to pay as much attention as he should.

"That's okay, friend," Foggy said with a laugh pulling Matthew down from the chair he stood on. "Blind Matthew Murdock, everyone!" he yelled above the din to the packed room. "Share a few pence with him if you enjoyed the song!" As Matthew stepped down, he nearly knocked Foggy over and ended up in his lap instead as Foggy was pushed back down into his chair. The clinking of coins onto the table in front of him made him smile.

"You know," he told Foggy, "I usually prefer just Matthew Murdock."

"Oh, come now," Foggy told him, his speech slurred, "You know phrasing it that way gives the crowd further incentive to pay you!"

"Oi," a woman said from the floor, and Matthew reached out his hand to help her up. "I get that you may be hard up for money, darling, but you're doing my job for me right now in his lap!"

Matthew moved off of Foggy's lap and allowed the woman to throw her arms around Foggy's neck and take his place, bumping into the table as he stood up. "Sorry, Miss. I don't mean to prevent you from earning a living." He reached for the coins on the table and began running his fingers over them, counting his earnings as he placed each coin in his fiddle case before adding the fiddle and its bow and snapping the latch shut.

Just then, a woman's hand snaked it way up his side. "Everyone's got a right to get by, don't they?" was whispered in his ear. "Now what can I do to convince you to transfer all those coins in that case to me this evening?"

"No thank you, Miss," he told her. "In fact, we're just leaving."

"No! Why?" Foggy asked, as Matt assisted in disentangling the man from his own woman and standing him back up.

"You've got to sit an exam in the morning, Sir!" Matthew told him. "Don't you remember?"

"No," Foggy said. "But then that's what I've got you for, dear Matthew!" He patted his friend on the cheek affectionately and fished a few coins from his pocket, leaving them on the table for the women with a smile. "For your troubles," he told them.

He extended an elbow. Matthew took it and together they made their way out into the night.

"You are so strict with me, aren't you?" Foggy asked Matthew. "I can take one night off, you know!"

"Of course, sir. But you can't take every night off, can you?" Matthew asked. "Otherwise you'll never graduate!"

"Ah, right!" Foggy said. "We can't have that, can we?"

Matthew shook his head. "No, sir."

"No!" Foggy shouted, and it seemed to echo off the cobblestone street, "Because I have a destiny, don't I? Some day I am going to a member of the fine, upstanding legal profession!"

"That's right!" Matthew shouted.

"And then, Matthew," Foggy said, "Then we can take every night off, can't we?" Matthew laughed, and Foggy continued "But with the full authority of the law behind us! And the funds to do it properly!"

"Speak for yourself," Matthew said. "I may have the full authority of the law protecting me, but my wallet will be as empty as ever."

"I take care of you, don't I?" Foggy asked him.

"You do," Matthew said, "But I have yet to puzzle out why you feel the need to. You indulge me too much, Foggy. People notice."

"Let them!" Foggy said. "It is none of their business who I choose to share my good fortunes with. I enjoy your company and don't wish to see you destitute, and there are a great many odd jobs that I've found for you to assist me with, including hauling me home on nights like this one. There's nothing wrong with that. When I finish school, you'll keep working for me."

"Nothing you've ever asked of me could be considered legitimate work, Foggy, and you know that," Matthew told him. "What use will a lawyer have for a blind beggar and his fiddle?"

Foggy exaggerated a gasp and clutched his chest, and Matthew had to steer him away from falling into a set of stocks. "Lots of use!" Foggy told him. "I can think of a thousand things that you could do for me."

"Oh really?" Matthew asked him. "Would you let me clerk for you then?"

Foggy laughed at that. "Well, I suppose not. But you could... well... I could hire you on officially as my valet."

"Of course!" Matthew told him, smiling. "I could help you pick out your clothing in the morning!" He dissolved into a fit of giggles.

"Absolutely, you could! I trust you that much!" Foggy said.

"You trust me to give you a shave?" Matthew asked him, incredulous.

"Why not? I'm not squeamish at the sight of blood. And you could cook for me. Lucky for you I love potatoes boiled to within an inch of their life!"

Matthew snorted, he was laughing so madly, and leaned over to wrap his arms around Foggy's neck.

"Brilliant!" he sighed. "And when you take a wife, I'm sure the woman you choose to marry will love me."

"She will if she wants my hand," Foggy said. "Honestly, it pains me to see you underestimate your own worth so, Matthew. The rest of the world may think what they want, but I know that there is more to you than meets the eye, so to speak."

"So to speak," Matthew repeated to himself, chuckling. "Your merits are not exactly overestimated either. Do you really mean to waste your fine education drinking and carousing with women of the night, and intervening in the petty squabbles of merchants and soldiers?"

Foggy calmed down and suddenly looked serious. "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it yet. It was my parents wish for me to study the law. Me... I wanted to be a butcher!" He grinned.

"Ha!" Matthew said, "A butcher? Why would you want to do a thing like that?"

"I don't know, really," Foggy replied. "I suppose I like the smell of all that meat. And the simplicity of it entices me. To wake up and open a shop. To engage in hard, physical labour that makes your muscles ache and ensures that your rest is dreamless and well-earned. To be allowed to be coarse and brutish and not have to make apologies for it. Being a member of polite society can be dreadfully tedious."

"Perhaps. But only because you have the privilege to make the choice," Matthew told him. "No offense, sir."

"From you I know that none was intended," Foggy said. "That's why I enjoy having you as a friend, Matthew. You remind me of how lucky I am and force me to ensure that I do not squander the opportunities I have been given."

"Is there a bench nearby?" Matthew asked. "I think I need to sit."

Foggy steered him to a bench nearby and they both sat.

"Does your head spin when you drink?" Foggy asked. "Is that possible if you cannot see?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Matthew told him. "I'm not sure why, but I suspect they may actually be even worse for me. My senses are so... are..."

"So...? So delicate?

"Yes," Matthew said after a moment. "Delicate is the word."

"One would think as an Irishman that you would hold your liquor better," Foggy said.

Matthew laughed. "It is true that I have been drinking for many, many years. Almost from the womb, I suspect."

"Very nice," Foggy said. "My parents would be ashamed if they knew how I spent my evenings. My parents both abstain from drinking, pious and virtuous bores that they are.

"My father lived a hard life," Matthew said. "Drinking was necessary for him. Both to numb the pain from the fights, and because better ale than water if you didn't want to take ill. But he never succumbed to alcohol's temptations the way many did. He kept his violence in his matches."

"Mine never needed alcohol to be spurred to violence," Foggy said. "Your father sounds like a good man."

"He was," Matthew said quietly.

"You do right by him," Foggy said, leaning in and patting Matthew on the shoulder. "Even after all the obstacles you've faced you're still here, and you're a good man too."

"I try to be," Matthew said.

"You are," Foggy said. "And I need a good man to set me on the right path and keep me in line. So, you're going to work for me. And I won't hear another word of objection from you about it."

"If you insist," Matthew said.

"I do," Foggy said. "Now let's attempt to stand again and find our way home, shall we?"

**Author's Note:**

> Comments inspire me, and help drive me to write faster and better (even if the comments say "You suck! Go home!")


End file.
